"He's been sending me letters… an email… threatening letters," I say, my voice gaining strength as the details pour out. "And black roses, left at my door. He vandalized my workplace too—broke windows, spraypainted horrible things. And he—" My voice catches. "He broke Julian's hand. Julian's a pianist. Daniel knew exactly what that would do to him, and he did it anyway. He's been terrorizing me for weeks, ever since I left him—"
"You have proof of this?"
"The letters, yes. The flowers. The restraining order. Ask the officers who took my statement." My throat tightens. "Ask Reeves Sullivan. He’s witnessed everything."
"We're going to need you to turn those letters over to us," Anderson says, his pen hovering over his notepad. "They'll be important evidence for building a case against Mr. Ross."
"They're at Julian's."
He makes a note. "Walk us through what happened when Mr. Ramirez arrived."
"He saved me." The words crack. "Daniel was forcing me into his car. Julian came down from the apartment. He must have—he must have realized something was wrong when I didn't come up."
"And?"
"Daniel—he threw the first punch," I say, my voice trembling as I recall the violence. "Julian was just defending himself, defendingme. Daniel attacked him first." I deliberately choose my words carefully, consciously omitting the most damning details—the parts where Julian seemed to lose himself completely in the violence, the way his fists kept connecting with Daniel's face over and over again, the sickening sounds, the blood, how visceral and brutal and uncontrolled it had become. How terrifying Julian had looked in those moments.
"How many times did Mr. Ramirez strike Mr. Ross?"
I close my eyes. See Julian's fist connecting again and again.
"I don't know. Three? Four? It all happened so fast."
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Three hours bleed into one another in that suffocating interview room, each minute stretching longer than the last. The grey walls seem to close in with every passing second, their institutional paint peeling at the corners, water-stained and neglected.
Someone's left a Styrofoam cup of coffee on the table—cheap station brew that's probably been sitting for hours, the acrid smell making my stomach turn.
The fluorescent lights overhead buzz, that relentless mechanical hum drilling straight into my skull until I want to scream. I press my palms against my temples, but it doesn't help. Nothing helps. I'm trapped here, waiting, while Julian sits in a cell somewhere because of me.
When the door finally opens at last, it's a different face entirely—not the younger officer who escorted me in here what feels like a lifetime ago. Senior Officer Walsh stands in the doorway, a man who looks to be in his mid-fifties with the kind of bone-deep exhaustion that comes from too many years on the force. His eyes are tired, bloodshot at the corners, bracketed by deep crow's feet that speak of long shifts and longer nights.There's a wedding band on his left hand, a simple gold band that's digging into the flesh of his ring finger like it's been there so long his finger's grown around it, the metal creating an indentation in the thick, calloused skin.
"You're free to go, Ms. Singh.”
The relief hits so hard I almost collapse.
"And Julian?"
Walsh sits next to me. The chair groans under his weight.
"Mr. Ramirez has been formally charged with assault causing bodily harm," Walsh says, his voice flat and professional, devoid of any emotion that might offer me comfort. He leans back in his chair, the metal frame creaking beneath him as he shifts his considerable weight. "He's been informed of his right to legal counsel, and he'll be held pending a bail hearing."
"No." The word rips out of me. "He was defending me. Daniel kidnapped me—"
"We're aware of the circumstances."
"Then why—"
"The force used exceeded what's considered reasonable self-defense under the law. That's not my call. That's the Crown's."
My hands shake. This is my fault. All of it.
"Is Daniel—" I can't finish.
"Mr. Ross is currently in critical but stable condition at Cumberland General," Walsh says, his tone remaining professionally neutral, almost clinical. "He sustained a skull fracture, along with significant internal bleeding. As of fifteen minutes ago, he was taken into emergency surgery." He pauses, watching me carefully, gauging my reaction. "The surgeons will be working on him for several hours at least."
The room tilts. Julian could've killed him. Almost did.
